Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Running Orders by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha

They call us now.Before they drop the bombs.The phone ringsand someone who knows my first namecalls and says in perfect Arabic“This is David.”And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphoniesstill smashing around in my headI think "Do I know any Davids in Gaza?"They call us now to sayRun.You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.Your house is next.They think of it as some kind of war time courtesy.It doesn’t matter thatthere is nowhere to run to.It means nothing that the borders are closedand your papers are worthlessand mark you only for a life sentencein this prison by the seaand the alleyways are narrowand there are more human livespacked one against the othermore than any other place on earthJust run.We aren’t trying to kill you.It doesn’t matter thatyou can’t call us back to tell usthe people we claim to want aren’t in your housethat there’s no one hereexcept you and your childrenwho were cheering for Argentinasharing the last loaf of bread for this weekcounting candles left in case the power goes out.It doesn’t matter that you have children.You live in the wrong placeand now is your chance to runto nowhere.It doesn’t matterthat 58 seconds isn’t long enoughto find your wedding albumor your son’s favorite blanketor your daughter’s almost completed college applicationor your shoesor to gather everyone in the house.It doesn’t matter what you had planned.It doesn’t matter who you areProve you’re human.Prove you stand on two legs.Run.